


oh, devour me (if you really think that you can stomach me)

by Neyasochi



Series: oh, devour me [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), I wanted this to be dark but it came out sweet: my eternal struggle, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Shiro (Voltron), Praise Kink, Slayer Shiro, instead you get Keith wanting to be Shiro's vampiric sugar daddy I'm sorry, vampire keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: While making his usual rounds on patrol, Shiro encounters a vampire who’s terribly hungry for a taste of him.





	oh, devour me (if you really think that you can stomach me)

**Author's Note:**

> This Halloween fic is a little Buffy-flavored but in this AU, Shiro is _a_ chosen one, not _the_ Chosen One. There are like a dozen slayers active around the world at any given time. It gives humanity better odds! :)
> 
> Thank you so much to EpitaphREI for betaing this for me!! :))))

A year ago, Shiro would never have been caught outdoors at this hour. He’d never have dreamed of picking his way through the woods alone, cautious of every snapped twig and rustle in the dead leaves, while the world sleeps around him. And he’d certainly never have pictured himself doing it with a wooden stake in hand.

Waking up at the ripe old age of twenty-three to learn that he’d been “chosen” as a champion by some vague force of light and good had been… unexpected, to say the least. It was an anomaly, a bolt from the blue, a stroke of some kind of luck that he still hadn’t quite made heads or tails of. Shiro had been sent reeling as he was suddenly hurled headlong onto the frontlines of a war that had been quietly raging for millennia, expected to put his newfound powers to use beating back the dead and demonic forces preying on mankind.

And it turns out he’s good at it. _Too_ good, maybe. Good gets a reputation. Good gets attention from big bads looking for a steeper challenge. Good is what had caught him the eye of demons and vampires well beyond his pay grade.

Not that _destiny_ is helping with the bills. He still has a day job for that.

The cemetery Shiro patrols tonight is old, forgotten by the living, a relic of some settlement long abandoned and overgrown by the surrounding woods. Its tombstones are worn smooth by time, no names to mark the occupants of their graves. The finer details of carven angels have weathered away, leaving them featureless and deformed in their mourning.

The remote location has made it a popular harvesting ground for magic-working humans and demons alike— an untapped trove of old bones for dark rituals, ripe for desecration. Sure enough, a number of graves have been freshly defiled; dark, hallowed earth is piled loose around exposed coffins, their rotting lids smashed to splinters. Shiro surveys the damage with a heavy sigh. He’s come too late for them, and the misstep will no doubt come back to bite him in the ass.

“Necromancers. Always a pain.” 

Shiro startles at the raspy voice, almost dropping his hand-sharpened stake into the open pit of one such grave.

_Keith._

He’s across the small graveyard, hip leaned against the jut of a headstone, silhouette unmistakable— tight denim, dark leather, gloves that expose fingers tipped with short, sharp claws.

Shiro stiffens reflexively as the vampire pushes off of the gravemarker and takes a few languid steps in his direction, moving with the slow, easy confidence of a predator. He wonders how long Keith’s been stalking him, silent as a big cat on padded paws, trailing in the shadows while Shiro paced through his nighttime patrol.

There’s a blink-and-miss-it gleam as Keith unsheathes the dagger at his hip, its blade catching the moonlight and holding it, soft and aglow. Most vampires don’t bother with weapons, their fangs and claws and inhuman strength more than enough to overpower their prey; Keith’s not like most vampires, though, in this way and many others. 

“Expected you to notice me sooner,” he says, idly tossing his dagger into the air and catching it by the handle, never letting his eyes leave Shiro. Its blade flashes as it spins, the ancient runes carved into the hilt mesmerizing— they shine a strange violet, bright as starlight. “But at least I have your attention now.”

He certainly does, standing there looking like death given lean, sinuous form. Shiro swallows but it does nothing to clear the tightness in his throat. “Full and undivided.” 

Keith shifts his weight from one long leg to another, and there’s enough wan, silvery light to make out the sharp curve of a fanged smirk as he says, “ _Good._ ”

And then he’s moving like a wraith, vaulting over tombstones with ease as he closes the gap between them so quickly that Shiro can only brace himself for the incoming impact.

He crosses his arms at the wrist in front of him just in time to block the swing of Keith’s leg, his durable prosthetic taking the brunt of the blow. The force of it reverberates up through Shiro, jolting through his bones until it knocks his teeth together. He’s quick on the defense, shielding himself from elbow jabs and knees aimed at his stomach, but every block costs him. Keith is solid, his bones like titanium and skin hard as marble, and the marks he leaves on Shiro will take a day or two to fade, even with the enhanced regeneration of a slayer.

Keith presses every little advantage he finds, forcing Shiro to fall back on instinct and hammered-in reflexes— ducking under a clawed slash, side-stepping a rib-crushing kick, arching his back and twisting away from a stab aimed at his kidney. A glimmer at the periphery of his vision tells him to block the sweeping slice of Keith’s runed dagger, and Shiro manages it so narrowly that he can feel the tip of the blade leave a nick in the fabric of his shirt and kiss his skin.

Anticipating the flurry of Keith’s movements is no easy task, but Shiro manages. It’s close. _So_ close, but he counters every would-be-fatal strike in the narrow window of opportunity he’s afforded, making the most of that sliver of a grace period between initiation and punishing execution.

Even at the peak of his performance, it doesn’t take long for Keith to disarm him. A well-aimed kick knocks Shiro’s stake from his hand and sends it tumbling into an open grave, lost in the darkness and the death-soaked dirt. Keith briefly pauses to smirk at him, the tip of his tongue wetting the edges of fangs until they gleam; his hair is tousled and wild, and those red-limned irises follow his every movement with an air of confidence and triumph.

But Shiro isn’t about to give up just because he’s weaponless against a vampire who could probably lift him up and snap him in two. He charges in, seeking to punish Keith for taking the moment to gloat, and manages to snag hold of the vampire’s crimson leather jacket. He wrenches Keith in close while bringing his closed metal fist up under his jaw. The right hook lands.

Keith’s head snaps back from the strike but the laugh that follows isn’t just unfazed— it’s _amused._ Too late Shiro realizes that the vampire had intended to be caught like this. He’d counted on it. He’d let himself be dragged in, willingly pulled within killing distance, and Shiro had leapt to oblige him.

With a push, Keith leaps high and hooks his long legs around Shiro’s middle. The suddenness of it throws his balance, the vampire far heavier than he appears, and Shiro topples to the hallowed earth with a pained grunt. Keith wraps around him as they roll, those lean, muscled thighs squeezing his ribs like the coils of a constrictor. 

Mercifully, Shiro is able to curl a hand around Keith’s wrist and pin it to the ground. If nothing else, it’ll keep the danger of that dagger at bay while he struggles to break free from the tangle of his legs. 

“You’re killing me,” he groans as Keith tightens around him, and his next breath comes in a narrow, reedy gasp.

“That’s kind of the point,” Keith answers. Wrist still pinned, he flips his dagger into the air with just his fingers. It spins end-over-end in an elegant arc toward his free hand, already splayed open to catch it— until Shiro snatches the blade midair and flings it out of sight, out of mind.

“Nice try,” he hisses as Keith bares his fangs and wraps strong, clawed fingers around his arm, tips digging into his bicep. They feel a little longer, a little sharper. “Cool move, but it’s not going to work against me twice.” 

Frustrated, the vampire abruptly unclasps his thighs from Shiro’s middle. As soon as he reels back to take a full breath, Keith coils his legs in tight and plants his heels along the bottom of Shiro’s ribcage; with an explosive push, he sends the slayer careening back. In the tumult, he leaps smoothly back to his feet. 

“Did you like that one?” Keith asks as Shiro rolls to a shaky stand, a hand poised reflexively over the bruise forming along his the base of his ribs.

“Seen better from you,” Shiro mutters, trying not to wheeze. Keith had squeezed most of the air from his lungs with the press of his thighs, then knocked out what little remained with that kick.

The vampire grunts, dissatisfied, and lunges anew. Even without his blade, he’s a ferocious opponent— lightning quick, relentless as he forces Shiro to take cover behind vaults and tombstones, sinfully dexterous while he gives chase. It’s his way to strike like this, an onslaught that never ceases, nimble as he dances in and out of range to kick Shiro’s legs out from under him and deliver punches that have the human seeing a galaxy of stars.

And this time, when Shiro finally gets his hands on Keith for a second time, he knows it catches the vampire by surprise.

Still reeling from an elbow to his side, Shiro drops his defense and instead throws himself at the vampire, landing one solid hit amid Keith’s shocked hesitation. But as the slayer tries to follow through, he finds his next swing blocked with a hard, leather-gloved palm, pale fingers closing around his fist. A shin catches Shiro in the side this time, striking hard where bruises already lay, and then Keith twists his arm until he’s forced to his knees.

Shiro cries out as the joint in his shoulder comes close to popping from its socket. “K-Keith!” 

The pressure immediately relents, but Keith isn’t finished with him yet. He hoists Shiro back to his feet— effortless, the strength in one arm more than enough to carry all of the slayer’s dense muscle— and spins him around, catching both of Shiro’s wrists and pinning them behind his back with one hand.

The vampire then half-walks, half-drags him toward a nearby cedar, ancient and towering.

Shiro digs his heels in on instinct, resisting to the very end. He tries hooking a a foot behind Keith’s knee to bring him down before they reach the tree. If he can take them both to the ground, he has a sliver of a chance at getting Keith snared in a hold that even a half-demon vampire would be vexed to break.

But Keith isn’t having it. Unbothered by Shiro’s last-ditch efforts to slip free, he heaves the slayer to the tree and slams him into the stout trunk, sandwiching Shiro tight between the moss-flecked wood and the unyielding shape of his own body.

The crush is inescapable, no matter how he bucks and strains to break free, and a soft sound just behind him tells Shiro that Keith is taking no small amount of pleasure in the futility of his struggling. He’d spent most of his strength fending off Keith’s onslaught; he has nothing substantial left to give. The cedar’s bark pokes through the front of his henley top and scrapes along his jaw as the slayer turns his head to shoot a  look over his shoulder.

Red eyes glint back. Keith is smaller than Shiro— at least in this form— but it’s an easy thing to forget.

“Mm, you got me,” he concedes at last, groaning as Keith gives him one last little push into the cedar. Breath as hot as brimstone tickles at his ear and the soft, sensitive skin just under his jaw. “I yield, Keith.” 

“Care to tell me where you went wrong?”

Shiro tries to shift and give his lungs an extra inch or two to expand, but Keith doesn’t allow him even that much. He’s held fast, unbudging, and the tree against his chest pops and creaks from their combined pressure. “Grabbed you without thinking. Left myself open. Just what you wanted.”

“Before that. Your very first mistake tonight.”

Shiro reflects and considers his options.

“Not dropping to my knees the second I saw you,” he decides, smiling small to himself as he feels the vampire shift his weight from one foot to the other, a low, interested growl in his ear.

“That could’ve been fun, too. But you know how much I love fighting you, Shiro,” Keith rumbles, voice reaching husky depths. “ _Really_ gets your blood pumping.” 

Shiro’s eyes flutter shut as he gauges his own pulse— rapid, blood still rushing in his ears, heart thudding against the wall of his ribcage. It must be a symphony of smell and sound for the vampire plastered to his back; hell, its song must be _irresistible_ , because Keith is already nosing at his neck and mouthing over the slope of his shoulder. Shiro’s heartbeat quickens under the slide of the vampire’s tongue, giving a full-bodied shudder as Keith licks hungrily up the side of his neck and leaves a wet stripe over the artery pumping just beneath.  

There’s a pinprick of fear in Shiro when he feels the first brush of those fangs, a primal warning to fight or flee. It’s ingrained into all humans, he’s sure, but being marked as a slayer makes the response all the more potent— Keith is his unnatural enemy, the very thing meant to destroy him, and Shiro should still be pouring every ounce of strength he has left into wresting himself free.

Instead, he moans out loud and twists to bare his throat; it gets him a pleased purr and a hard thigh wedged between his legs. 

“Where did I go wrong?” he asks as Keith sucks at a patch of unbroken skin, coaxing blood to the surface. At a questioning sound from the vampire, Shiro clears his throat and clarifies. “My first mistake.”

“I’ve been upwind of you for the last two miles. You should’ve caught my scent well before getting here.”

“Oh.” Shiro had thought he’d smelled ash, but it was fall and there were bonfires aplenty. The routine of his patrol had let parts of his mind wander in the quiet, too, slipping to thoughts of mundane, mortal concerns until the next distant rustle of leaves set him on edge. “I was… distracted, I guess. My landlord is coming by to check the smoke detectors tomorrow and I’m the tiniest bit nervous he’ll open a closet and a bunch of stakes will spill out—”

“Can you smell me _now?_ ” Keith impatiently cuts in, crowding closer and crushing Shiro into the cedar until his cheek presses squarely into the tree trunk.

Ash and char, yes, a smoky scent strong enough to make Shiro’s eyes water. It isn’t the norm for vampires, but Keith— a half-demon kissed by fire before he was turned— is altogether something different. Shiro nods, bark scraping his jaw.

“Would it really have helped, though?” he wonders aloud as Keith’s pressure eases by a fraction. He hums and flexes the tendons of his wrists, still bound tight in one inhuman hand. “Even if I’d noticed you sooner, it’s not like I can actually beat you, Keith. You always get me like this. You _like_ me like this.”

Down on the earth or up against a wall, pinned where the vampire can mark him to his heart’s content. He has no doubt that Keith loves the fight that precedes it too— the thrill of close combat, the pitted struggle for dominance that inevitably ends with him on top— but exciting as it is, it’s only foreplay. What Keith savors most is this: Shiro’s willing submission, the look of him flushed and conquered, the depth of trust on display every time Keith’s favored slayer surrenders himself fully into hands capable of tearing him apart.

“I do,” Keith admits, his pleased hum felt against the human’s back. His free hand rubs up along the front of Shiro’s thigh, bunching the loose fabric of his sweatpants; it toys with the ends of the drawstring holding them tight around his hips. “But don’t get discouraged, Shiro. No slayer has ever made me work as hard as you do.”

Shiro grunts, unconvinced.

Realistically, in the grand scheme of the battle between good and evil, he is nothing more than an upjumped pawn— for the forces of good, true, but far from irreplaceable. Keith is more akin to a king, commanding a sprawling territory and wielding the sort of power that can make legions of demons bend to his will. There is no even footing when they spar, and if Keith didn’t possess an ungodly amount of affection for him, Shiro knows he’d be dead a hundred times over by now.

“You learn quick. You’re stronger every time I see you,” the vampire praises, a hand running appreciatively down Shiro’s abdomen, slow as it roves over muscle trembling from strain. “We’ll keep working on your stamina, your technique. And maybe I’ll even show you how to do that _cool move_ you like so much,” he teases.

Shiro… likes the sound of that. He says as much while Keith nuzzles into his throat, murmuring his admiration until the slayer blushes bright across his cheeks and his chest, up to his ears in red. Shiro pushes back against the vampire just the way he likes; with a soft chuckle, Keith catches hold of his hips and holds him there, right where he wants him.

“I have the _perfect_ dagger for you,” he adds, raspy voice tinged with excitement. He grinds against Shiro, letting him feel the hardness aching solely for him. “Meteorite blade, ivory-handled, forged in an underworld like a dying star. And I’ll make sure you know how to use it, Shiro.”

The same way Keith uses his dagger, Shiro hopes, though he imagines it would take _years_ of lessons to even approach that level of skill. Years that are hard to come by for slayers, who rarely live half a decade after receiving their calling. Years he’ll likely never have…

But those are morbid thoughts and Shiro lets the thrill of Keith’s mouth on his skin chase them away. He doesn’t even mind when he hears the quiet pop of his henley’s collar being torn, threads unraveled, the fabric tugged aside until his shoulder is bare and vulnerable.

Hunting fingers slip their way under the hem of his shirt and skim along the waistband of his sweatpants. His nails have already shifted to something more blunt and human, but the trails they make across Shiro’s skin are still enough to coax shivers from him. Keith’s hand slides to his front, nimble fingers undoing the drawstring with the slightest pull; he only has to hook his thumb into the waistband and give a little tug to slip the fabric down Shiro’s thighs.

The night air is cold where it slips in around the slayer’s legs, wicking the heat from his skin. He hisses when Keith takes his briefs next, patterned material wrenched away by a clawed fist, his whole rump bare and exposed to the elements.

It leaves him thankful that Keith runs hot. Hotter still when he’s like this, riled by the promise of flesh and blood. The knuckles that trail down the back of his thigh leave a pleasing burn in their wake that Shiro wishes he could feel all over and all at once.

“It’s cold,” he complains, squirming as Keith cups him through his briefs, thumbing at the damp spot where his precum has bled through the fabric. The contact is too much, too direct— until it vanishes, burning touch and warmed leather roving up his abdomen as far as the press of the cedar will allow. Shiro whines and tests the grip around his wrists; still ironclad. “Make me sweat, Keith.”

“Don’t I always?”

Keith’s hand withdraws, and its absence stings worse than the cold itself. The next time Shiro feels the heat of his touch, those long, skillful fingers are slick with oil as they slip between Shiro’s cheeks to brush insistently at the tight ring of his entrance. The time for slow, torturous teasing has passed, apparently— Keith hurriedly pushes one finger in and then another, so eager to stretch him open that he can barely wait. 

Shiro grunts and rubs his temple into the cedar; despite being centuries old, Keith still doesn’t have much in the way of patience when it comes down to this. The twinge of discomfort is short-lived, though. Keith’s touch is nothing if not skillful and ardent, his fingers deft enough to have Shiro whining with longing and rolling his hips back in a desperate bid for more within mere moments.

And Keith’s too hungry for it to deny him anything. There’s a rushed edge to his movements as he pushes Shiro’s hips to the right angle and glides the slick, heated head of his cock along the curve of his ass, into the cleft of his cheeks to rub impatiently against his loosened rim.

It takes a few tries to get right and neither of them handles the wait well. Shiro’s toes curl in anticipation, his bottom lip held tight between his teeth. The mounting pressure against his entrance puts him on tenterhooks, expectation thrumming through his core, and he hisses out low in disappointment each time Keith’s cock slips aside rather than easing into him.

There’s a deep-seated growl over his shoulder as Keith leverages his weight and makes a push that strikes true, the swell of his cockhead finally making it past the tight ring of muscle. It turns to a contented groan of relief, drawn out as the vampire edges his way deeper.

It’s a good burn, a pressure that overwhelms every other thought in Shiro’s head. Keith’s heat fills him so thoroughly that he feels warm down to his fingertips and toes, the searing weight inching its way inside of him leaving no room any other sensation. And Shiro welcomes it, shifting under Keith’s touch in an attempt to take the slow, halting drag of that first thrust a little easier. Maybe halfway through, his eyes flutter shut and he takes in a deep breath— or as deep as it can be when he’s still caught between the cedar and Keith’s dominating presence, pinioned and pressed until all he can do is writhe.

Bottoming out draws a satisfied sigh from the vampire, the fingers curled around Shiro’s wrists flexing tighter. There’s time to enjoy it, to adjust, but it isn’t much. Keith’s sudden withdrawal leaves Shiro keening; the return stroke, filling him just as abruptly, leaves the slayer breathless.

There’s a ferocity to the way Keith moves against him that Shiro doubts will ever truly be tempered, no matter how loving the vampire can be with him. It is an unquenchable nature in him that isn’t human but hungers for humanity still. Even transmuted into a desire for flesh rather than blood, for pleasure as opposed to pain, a bit of those vampiric tendencies can’t help but bleed through.

 A weaker human— one who isn’t equipped with the resilience and regeneration gifted to the chosen few slayers— wouldn’t be able to withstand the intensity of it. They’d shatter under Keith’s affections, tender as they are. His gentleness in the heat of passion is both a willful choice and a labor to maintain, and one little lapse could easily mean death for any mortal.

Except Shiro, of course. A _slayer_. Superhuman. A champion built to withstand blows that could smash ribs and burst organs; given the strength to stand against the forces of evil pitted against humanity. In the broadest sense, he and Keith were _made_ for each other. (Made to war with each other, made to kill— yes, technically, but those skills are apparently transferable.) His body is forgiving. He can take what Keith gives him and thrive on it.

To a limit, of course. There are always limits, and Keith is good at staying mindful of them. He pushes against them in ways Shiro likes— like now, with his whole being resting in the vampire’s capable hands, straining to hold together at the seams as he’s stirred to a frenzy by every stroke laid deep inside of him.

Shiro’s panting rises to a steady, breathy note of need. He doesn’t have a free hand to muffle himself, no downy pillow to hide his face in as Keith forces unholy sounds out of him. They slip out into the night air despite his best attempts to choke them down or hem them behind a bitten lip— pleas and praise that bleed into wavering moans, cries that pierce the darkness with wanton need.

“Shh,” Keith quiets, a dry, teasing tilt to his rasp. “You wanna wake the dead?”

It’s funny. It is, and he can feel the tiniest trace of laughter as Keith presses lips to his shoulder. But nothing can quite touch the ludicrous irony of Shiro’s own predicament: a divinely chosen vampire slayer getting his back blown out by one of the very demonic beings he’s charged with killing. In a graveyard. At four in the morning. And not for the first time. 

He’d give a laugh himself if he could manage it, but there’s no room in his lungs for anything except desperately panted breaths and the needy, lustful noises he makes that Keith feeds on like they’re as vital to him as fresh blood.

The vampire gives a thrust that briefly lifts Shiro onto his toes, pushing a strangled cry right out of him. His mouth fastens to the slayer’s throat; lips and tongue flush with his skin, Keith can feel every flex and reverberation as he gasps and groans.

“More,” Shiro breathes, his eyes slipping shut, long lashes settling heavy over his cheeks. His groans come out fevered, the scratch of the bark pressed against his flushed cheek dwarfed by the furor coursing through him. “M-more, Keith.”

Keith finally drops his hold on Shiro’s wrists, blanched bloodless from the iron grip, so that he can take the man’s hips with both hands. There’s reverence in how he takes him, and power, and _restraint_ — frayed though it is, it’s enough to keep the hands clamped around him from doing anything more than bruising his soft skin as Keith hauls him backward to meet every slam of his hips. 

Shiro’s shoulders ache as he brings his arms around to brace himself, sore from the awkward angle they’d been kept at. Bark digs into his bare palm as he struggles to keep his hand from sliding out from under him with every forceful thrust; his metal fingertips curl into the cedar’s soft outer wood, scrabbling for purchase at every stroke Keith pounds into him.

There’s a long, lascivious lick up the back of his neck before Keith sinks his fangs and pointed canines deep into tensed muscle, mouth bridging across his spine. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes as his blood wells up around the vampire’s teeth. It spreads warm and wet over his skin, mingling with his sweat before Keith’s tongue swipes it away, hungry for every taste of him.

“Fuck,” Shiro whimpers, back arching under the combined pressure of the teeth locked around his nape and the clench of hands around his hips.

Keith keeps him trapped against the stout tree trunk, bent and bowed, and Shiro can do nothing but cling tight to it as the vampire fucks into him like it’s the first and last time he’ll get the chance. Keith makes no bones about covering him in his own burnt scent while he does it, either. The smell settles on Shiro’s clothes and skin like a dusting of ash; it carries on every breath, filling his mouth until it’s all he can taste, too.

And Shiro goes blissfully mindless from it, consumed in the heat that catches between Keith’s skin and his own. They could set the forest ablaze like this, he thinks, his fevered cheek pressed hard into the dry cedar wood. He wouldn’t mind it, even— he’s teetering at that mind-flaying precipice where he briefly, _briefly_ feels as though he could burn to a cinder and still be absolutely content. 

It’s a pleasure that threatens to rip its way out of him like something in a horror movie, violent and sudden. Shiro’s legs tremble under him as Keith at last slips his hand around and takes his heavy cock in hand, the vampire’s touch too expert to endure for long.

Shiro shouts as Keith wrings the orgasm out of him hard and swift. He chokes on his own cry, heartbeat and lashes fluttering as he’s slammed into the tree one last time, his cock sheathed in the coil of Keith’s loose fist and pinned tight between his own body and the cedar. His release spills messy and sticky-warm against his stomach, through the bunched fabric of his henley; it dribbles down over Keith’s leather-wrapped hand and drips from the base of his cock, a debauched mess, and Keith fucks into him all the while.

Shiro’s daze is interrupted the sharp crunch of a pale hand meeting the bark beside his head, the wood groaning and splintering under the rake of the vampire’s claws. He whimpers as Keith bucks into him with abandon, overwhelmed as he’s ground harder into the hand still curled around his dick; there’s nothing to be done but ride it out, agonized with pleasure until Keith borderline howls and lodges himself deep inside of Shiro.

The roll of his hips slows, Keith rocking against him contentedly as he spills a warm flood of come into the slayer. 

Shiro folds his arms against the tree and braces his forehead on the cool, sleek material of his prosthetic; it’s a relief from the heat under his skin, the beaded sweat that has his white fringe plastered to his brow. When he breathes in, it feels like taking his first breath in hours. His limbs are weighted like iron, his hips sore and likely bruised, his whole body still abuzz from the riotous peak of his climax. If he weren’t still securely pinned between Keith and the tree, he’d be in a puddle on the mossy earth, too boneless to stand on his own.

The vampire’s considerable weight sagging against his back is an unexpected comfort, as are the arms now loosely looped around his waist. It’s satisfying to know that Keith is exhausted in the aftermath, too.

For the moment, at least. Keith has stamina to burn for days, deep reserves of it that are hard to match. Shiro knows from experience.

The woods remain still and silent around them, absent of the usual nighttime chirps and rustles of the forest. They may not have woken the dead, but they’d probably run off the living. The back of Shiro's neck aches where Keith planted his teeth, though the warm stroke of a tongue over the punctures is some consolation. This bite will heal overnight like all the rest have, adding to the chain of pale, delicate scars that already circle his throat. 

“Pretty,” Keith murmurs as he drags a claw over the mark of an older, deeper bite. He’d drunk deeply of Shiro that evening, licking up the blood that spilled down the slope of his back with hungry delight. “And pretty tasty.”

Shiro snorts, close to rolling his eyes. “Glad you think so.”

He shifts a little under the drape of Keith’s body, unsure how long he’s expected to remain like this. Coming down from the fiery peak of that climax has him chilled, the sweat on his skin making the cool sting of the fall breeze worse. As Keith’s ambient heat wanes, he begins to regret their choice of location.

“When are you going to let me turn you?” Keith moans against his shoulder, his own post-coital high giving way to a sullen mood. He still hasn’t pulled out of Shiro, hasn’t made a move to part from him. Instead, his forehead presses into the center of the man’s back. “I’m— I don’t want to lose you, Shiro.”

“Lose me?” Shiro asks wearily, his voice gone scratchy from overuse. It takes a moment for his pleasure-addled mind to pick up the familiar thread of conversation. 

The vampire doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “If we wait too long…”

There are dangers to being a slayer. It’s _all_ there is to being a slayer, in many ways. Their lifespans are short and their ends violent, the turnover rate is high, and even the fierce protection of someone as powerful as Keith isn’t a guarantee of safety. There are vampires even older than he is, after all, and pure-blooded demons besides.

Shiro groans as Keith’s cock finally slips out of him, a flow of viscous warmth following in its wake. It drips into the fabric pooled around his knees and runs slowly down the backs of his thighs, already going cool as Keith retreats from him. Shiro’s arm trembles as he pushes off of the cedar and stands on equally shaky legs, his every muscle still strained from their fucking and the fight that served as its prelude.

“I’m a mess,” he mutters, grateful when Keith wordlessly tugs his sweatpants back up to cover him, hands poised on Shiro’s hips to help keep him steady as he turns. “And you know I’m not really… sold on the vampire thing,” the slayer reminds him.

“I’ll sell you on it.” Keith ties the drawstring around his waist into a bow for him, knuckles fondly brushing up and down the flat of Shiro’s stomach after. “ _Immortality,_ Shiro. It’s not an offer most humans get. It’s not one I often make,” he adds, eyebrows lifting a fraction, his surprise aimed inward. “Much less… six times, now? Seven?” 

Yes, and every time Shiro stews over it, skin crawling with the fear of what the change might do to him. He’s seen more newborn vampires than he has any other kind, bloodthirsty and reckless, their cruelty unfettered and indiscriminate. And he shudders to think he could become like that— unlike himself, lost in the flood of new power and the craving for violence, the very sort of monster he’s dedicated the past year of his life to slaying…

Still, he does wonder if he’s pushing his luck with both his own mortality and Keith’s patience. Loving as he is, the man is still no man at all— a half-demon turned vampire, a breed all his own and ruled by an entirely different set of norms and desires. Though he trusts Keith with much, his life included, he has to wonder what Keith will do if he never agrees.

Watch him grow older by the day, his limited allotment of time slipping by in what must feel like the blink of an eye? Abide his decision until Shiro meets some end somewhere outside the bounds of Keith’s control? Survive him? _Avenge_ him? Or would he change him against his will, unwilling to lose him? 

“Ask me again next month,” Shiro murmurs. He’s lucky to have this, he knows— an unquestioningly powerful vampire watching his back, ready to lay the world at his feet and restrained enough to give him a choice in the matter. Keith is absolutely one in a hundred-billion, a singularity in this universe and maybe all the rest, too. “I do appreciate that you like me enough to want me around forever, though.” 

Keith sighs at that. Almost reluctant, he steps forward and slips his arms around Shiro, head pillowed on his chest, and squeezes him— gently, conscious of his tender bruises from their spar and his mortal need for free-flowing air. “Mm. That’s right, Shiro. I _like_ you enough to give you eternity.” 

There’s a sulkiness to his tone that Shiro can’t quite account for; lingering disappointment that he isn’t ready to become the first slayer-turned-vampire in history, maybe. He embraces Keith back, cheek resting on the crown of the vampire’s head, and gently sways in the hopes it will help soothe away some of his remaining displeasure.

“Don’t forget to pick up your dagger,” Shiro reminds him, thinking of it lying lost in the graveyard. It had belonged to Keith’s mother, he’d said, a demon who’d fallen in love with a mortal man centuries past. He’d be heartbroken to lose it. 

“I won’t.” Keith stretches up to lay a kiss at the corner of Shiro’s mouth, sweet despite the fangs he brushes over delicate skin.

It strikes him then that it’s somehow their _first_ kiss of the night. Shiro wonders at that, amazed Keith hadn’t wrenched him around to deliver one sooner.

He cups the back of the vampire’s head, fingers threaded through a dense mane of dark hair, and deepens it. It seems almost strange to pass a night with Keith and walk away with lips unteased, unbruised, unbitten. Strange not to leave with the taste of smoke heavy on his tongue and Keith’s saliva drying on his mouth, skin reddened from the prick of pointed teeth. 

So he fixes that, to Keith’s purring contentment. And even after he breaks the kiss for some desperately needed air, the vampire holds him close and soldiers on. 

Keith trails wet kisses along his jaw, over a ticklish spot under his ear, down the scarred column of his throat. He dots them along the dip of Shiro’s clavicle and leaves behind lovebites that stud his skin like gemstones would a necklace. They’re wet kisses that cool quickly under the nighttime breeze, the chill sharp on his skin.

Shiro shudders and tries to fix the shirt that Keith tore earlier in his eagerness and haste, the fabric not quite covering him as it should.

“Sorry.” Keith presses another kiss— chaste, apologetic— to the slope of his cheek. “I’ll buy you another. Something nicer, even.”

Keith’s jacket is a little too small to fit him, so the vampire drapes the fine leather over Shiro’s shoulders instead, giving him an added barrier against the cold. 

“I have a lead on your necromancers,” Keith mumbles, hands jammed in the tight confines of his pockets. He’s unbothered by the chill, even in just a snug tee and those sleek jeans, the mannerism more habit than anything else. “I could take you to their den, if you want. Tomorrow night.” 

“It’d _have_ to be tomorrow,” Shiro agrees. “You’ve kind of ruined me for tonight.”

He’s six kinds of a mess— bloodied and bruised, his neck marked and clothes torn, sweaty and filthy and very much aware of Keith’s come still dripping out of him and drying sticky on the backs of his thighs. 

Keith smiles as he adjusts the jacket draped over the slayer’s shoulders, blatantly proud of his handiwork. Shiro looks ravaged. _Claimed_. He’s covered in Keith’s caustic scent, blanketed in the protection that his high status among demonkind gives, and marked to hell and back.

“Come pick me up at sundown.” On second thought, Shiro adds, “Or a bit after? I’m a little behind on my job that actually pays the bills.” 

“Or you could come home with me for the day,” Keith suggests, still thumbing at the lines of Shiro’s battered clothing. “Use my computer for your work. It’d spare you any wandering eyes as you traipse back to your apartment like this.”

From the sound of it, Keith isn’t too off-put by the idea of someone bearing witness to Shiro in the wrecked state he’d put him in. The only thought he seems to like better is taking Shiro home and having him all to himself. 

“I… I shouldn’t. The landlord’s poking around later today and I still need to tidy up.” It’s a weak excuse and Shiro can come up with a dozen more, all of them just as sad and lonely: the chicken salad currently sitting in his fridge, dangerously close to expiring; the pile of laundry that needs to be done; the mail he hasn’t stopped by the office to pick up in almost a week. 

“You love my sheets, remember?” the vampire entices, appealing to Shiro’s basest desire for creature comforts and little luxuries outside of his own means. The slayer nearly shudders as Keith leans in and whispers, “Think of the thread count, Shiro. And the waterfall shower with _six_ pressure settings. Think of curling up in front of my fireplace with _any_ kind of takeout you want.”

 _Fuck._ Maybe he ought to be alarmed by how well Keith has gotten to know him; by how easily the vampire can reel him in; by how much he wants everything Keith says, and Keith with it. 

“Alright,” Shiro relents, knowing a good deal when it smiles in his face, fangs bared. As he falls into step beside the vampire, he pretends not to see Keith’s preening look, the flash of bright triumph in his red-tinted eyes. “Just for today.”

**Author's Note:**

> like Shiro hasn't said _that_ before, lol


End file.
